Pain
by Lady Luce
Summary: Vergil learns the true meaning of pain when he watches his mother die. OneShot. Rated for blood.


**-Pain-**

-Lady Luce-

_Disclaimer: I don't own Devil May Cry it all belongs to Capcom._

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It was the first time he'd ever really felt pain. He'd been in scrapes when he was younger; but this. This was something new – a searing, brutal agony which left him deaf, dumb and blind; scattering his wits in a torrent of fire and ice. 

There was a sound which still remained torturously clear despite his frayed senses. His mother was screaming.

Hand out-stretched he clawed uselessly at the ground fingers mere inches from Yamato's hilt. The only memento left to him by his father was just out of his reach and no matter how hard he tried to focus through the blurring pain he couldn't summon the strength to raise his battered body from the blood-soaked floor. If only he had his father's strength – his power – he could put a stop to this nightmare.

Vergil's left hand planted itself against the floor in a moment of rage and defiance. Adrenalin flooded his being and through his clouded vision he locked eyes with his mother's. He was alright – he needed to tell her that he was alright.

The words stuck uselessly in the back of his throat and piercing blue eyes widened in shock his jaw slack in a silent scream. Blood filled his mouth, spilling across pale lips as the scythe ripped through muscle and tissue – piercing his lung with a visceral sucking sound; knocking the wind from his already winded body.

His cheek struck the dirt blood-stained wisps of white hair falling across his face and he heard something crack as more blood spilled into his mouth. A trembling hand was still reaching for Yamato's hilt and through the pained fog engulfing his consciousness he could hear Eva begging.

"No Vergil don't-!" Her voice was a mixture of complete panic and horror. "Leave it!"

She was begging and pleading for him for _his_ life. The anguish and abject terror in her voice cut him to the core. The terrifying knowledge that he wasn't strong enough to save her was the only one penetrating his awareness. The dull ache of the scythe still imbedded in his back – pinning him to the floor – was nothing compared to this. _This_ really was the true meaning of pain.

A ghastly, mutilated, foot smashed his shaking hand into the ground and he heard the bones' sickening crunch as the demon ground his hand ruthlessly into the dirt jarring consciousness from him for a second. Pain shocked up his arm as Yamato was kicked aside and Vergil could only watch helplessly. That word… _helpless _it sent a flicker of anger across the back of his mind, but it was not enough for him to rally himself into some form of attack. He could barely move around the blade imbedded in his gut.

Eva's cried had grown hoarse and Vergil gritted his teeth in fury. His mother was a strong, fiery woman. He had never heard her beg; he wanted to put a stop to her suffering. To tear these wretched beasts limb from limb and then vanquish the one who had sent them. But he couldn't even move. He was still pinned to the floor – like a bug in a collection. His mangled lungs laboured uselessly for air, a gasp passing slackened lips as the scythe was ripped mercilessly from his back.

His mother screamed frantically, he could hear snippets of her voice; but they were confused and distant. She was begging for them to stop; pleading for them to take her instead and spare him. Vergil felt the blade come smashing back down lacerating his already torn insides running him through; he heard the disjointed metallic clang as it pierced the ground beneath him.

His eyes burned, vision swimming with a chaotic disarray of vivid colours and lights. He could no longer tell if his eyes were open – if he was screaming or not. Eva's voice was disembodied – fading in his rapidly deafened ears.

Where was Dante? His mother would have made sure that his twin was safe wouldn't she? He didn't really need to ask, he knew that she would have.

Anguish knotted itself in his throat; Eva's cries finally failing to reach his ears as the face of his mirror image frayed from his minds eye into a haze of red.

There was nothing he could do now. He was supposed to be a son of Sparda – supposed to be the eldest. The leader; the defender. He should be stronger than this! If only he had his father's strength he could have saved them… but part of him knew he was nothing compared to the legendary Dark Knight.

Coherence was wrenched from him in a blinding flash of white light; darkness rushed to meet it, dissolving his senses. With a feeling of relief he felt pain slip away as he embraced oblivion.

-o-

He had failed again.

Leaning heavily on Yamato for support he hauled himself to his feet. Ignoring the blood soaked ground and the protest from his aching body he grunted straightening up to stare at the three red orbs which pierced the grey darkness of Hell; crackling with demonic electricity.

His eyes narrowed; jaw clenched. He may have failed to defeat his brother, to retrieve Force Edge and the amulet, but he was not leaving here empty handed. After everything he had been through to get this far – to exact his vengeance on the one who had taught him the true meaning of torment.

Mind brimming with the memories which began his suicidal quest for power he glowered up at the lights above him. Darkness crept across the back of his mind thoughts raging with pure abhorrence. His voice was laced with the same languid, sardonic tone; but there was something there also. A brutal fire burned his eyes so hot that the inferno turned to ice.

"It should be fun to fight with the prince of darkness," his voice was strong, confident, edged with the insanity of his defeat – one which he wasn't about to give into. He strangled Yamato's hilt in a white knuckled grasp pulling the sword from its sheath with a sibilant hiss. The blade glittered in the strange twilight, tinged with the sanguine colour of blood. "If my father did it I should be able to do it too."

A cry tore its way from his throat as he ran towards the final battle. Though half of him knew he couldn't win it was drowned by the suffocating lust for power, victory and vengeance.

That small part of him still whispered softly in his ear one last time. A bittersweet warning. If he was victorious, there would be no one to share that triumph with. There may have been no one to stop him, but there was no one to return to now either.

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Please review :) 

-Luce


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